


Disputatio Diabolica

by CCNSurvivor



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-09-13 03:44:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16885014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CCNSurvivor/pseuds/CCNSurvivor
Summary: It’s delightful, really, the way those fine eyebrows draw together in annoyance. How long would it take to make her come undone, she wonders, the tip of her tongue darting out to moisten her lips.





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> \- This was meant to be about Zelda cornering Madam Satan and demanding answers. Suffice to say, it developed a dynamic of its own  
> \- There might be more?

1

 

She likes the twilight of the woods, the large trees that cast their shadows on soil soaked with blood. She likes the wind that whispers through the leaves as she walks, entrusting her with all the dreadful secrets it has witnessed. She likes the spectrum of darkness she encounters along the way, the inky blacks and murky greys that hide in cracks and corners.

What she doesn’t like are surprises.

The door to her cottage is locked when she finally completes her journey, but there’s a familiar fragrance of magic in the air that she can’t quite place. She leaves her fingers curled around the door knob a moment longer, then lifts one to her lips and suckles on its tip. Zelda Spellman. She doesn’t like where this is going, but there’s no need to let the other woman know that.

The house is cloaked in darkness when she finally crosses the threshold and Zelda’s figure in her armchair the only speck of light.

“Take a seat, Miss Wardwell.” Her voice is calm despite its steel which presses against her throat like the blade of a knife.

A hiss fills the air, followed by a spark. As Madam Satan rounds the armchair to the right, she catches the red lips as they curl around the end of the cigarette. Every movement is measured, even the exhalation of smoke. Slowly, she sinks down in her seat, notes the nuances of scent and crosses one long leg over the other until her black dress hikes up to her knees.

“I assume this is about Sabrina. I’m sure we could’ve made arrangements in a less gloomy ambience."

“I have come here for you.”

“Well, I am flattered.”

It’s delightful, really, the way those fine eyebrows draw together in annoyance. How long would it take to make her come undone, she wonders, the tip of her tongue darting out to moisten her lips.

“Please spare me this act.” Zelda’s voice is on the cusp of huskiness; as she waves a hand through the air, the cigarette leaves behind a thin trail of white clouds. “Who are you?” Zelda catches the grin as it ignites in her eyes, pushes herself to the edge of her chair and utters a sharp, punishing “tsk”. “Who are you _really_?”

Madam Satan swallows the vowels and consonants of her name and locks her ankles while the sensation of Zelda’s impatience teases along her legs. She knows she can still prolong it by a few seconds. But no more than that; an eruption now would be disappointingly premature. No, she wants to taste her.

“Those questions really are terribly large, and I’m assuming you’re not in the mood for long answers. A shame, really,” The corners of her mouth dip into a faux-pout. “I’m a dreadfully good story teller.”

Zelda’s mouth closes firmer around the cigarette this time, her lips tug at it with undisguised need. A fire crackles ravenously below her navel, she is coiled tight and burning. They’ve reached a stalemate.

“Well, what do you propose then?”

“A slower pace. Zelda.” She weighs her name on her tongue, it’s decadent and lavish. “I will answer all your questions. Promise.” She winks and selfishly delights in the splash of colour she brings to those pale cheeks.

“And in return?” Zelda’s jaw is set, her chin tilted up proudly.

She’s always enjoyed an intelligent woman.

“You answer a few of _my_ questions.”

 

 

 

 


	2. The Ritual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- slow-burn...maybe?  
> \- let me know if you still like it, please :)

2

 

Their ritual, their dance begins that night. Madam Satan enjoys the anticipation too much to let it ebb away now. Zelda before her – struggling for composure – looks rather delicious. High, pale cheekbones coloured with indignation, chest rising against her tightly-buttoned blouse. To rake her fingers through her thick, golden hair, she muses, to tug and pull until the first dark moan escapes her parted lips.

But wait, patience.

“Why don’t you try again with a simpler question?” She makes certain that her voice sounds warm and inviting, but when Zelda’s nostrils flare – subtly, of course – she knows the devilish glint in her eyes has been spotted.

Red lips close around the dying cigarette a last time; she inhales, then exhales, and as the smoke subsides, so does all trace of her smoking at all. Madam Satan’s eyes cling to a spot on her bottom lip where the pristine line of lipstick has been smudged. Licking or biting, she wonders, while she unconsciously does the same damage to her own lip.

All the while Zelda watches, her focus undeniably broken. It’s obscene, she finds, how the skin splits open under the dominance of one tooth, how that single bead of blood stubbornly shines. She can taste it on her tongue, warm and metallic, infused with the richness of wine and the spice of hell fire.

“Has Edward entrusted you with Sabrina’s care?” Her voice possesses its own shade of black when she finally presents the question. In a testament to her iron will it does not buckle or crack, and yet it reveals too much. A hunger, too long reined in. A thirst for recognition.

Madam Satan sits up straighter in her chair and unlocks her legs. She looks powerful, aware of the strings at her fingertips. And she isn’t afraid to tug.

“Oh Satan, no,” she chuckles. She doesn’t once lose Zelda’s eyes in the darkness. “That was a lie, and a convenient one at that. Teenage witches will believe anything!”

The fire this ignites is not entirely unexpected, but ever more thrilling. It burns her sides and bites itself between her ribs. She allows it to smoulder there and makes certain that Zelda’s attention doesn’t waver before she runs her hands down the fiery trail. Then, she moves in for the kill.

“Does that disappoint you or relieve you?”

With a flick of the wrist, the fireplace roars to life, its logs and embers crackling like broken-down gravel. Madam Satan, too, is occupying the very edge of her seat, her looming figure throwing a menacing shadow onto the other woman.

“I’m not following.”

Oh, but it is there in the irregular flutter of her long, dark lashes.

“Were you hoping for one more sign from your dearly departed brother? Or did you fear that he didn’t trust you enough to protect his daughter?”

She spells it out, one by one, in all its agonising detail. Without restraint, Madam Satan devours her secrets.

“Nobody,” Zelda presses out – her voice is raw and hoarse – “nobody could offer Sabrina a protection like that of her parents.”

With a bejewelled finger she flicks a strand of hair from her face and rises to her feet with dignified grace. Her skirt bears creases.

Madam Satan rises, too, and meets her half-way between the two chairs. Not once do their bodies touch. An agonising inch remains always between them.

She knows that the night has come to a close, just as she knows that Zelda will be back. Revenge too sweet a temptation to resist. But as she watches her walk out of the cottage, all dignity and poise, as the even beat of her heels slowly subsides, she notes to herself how curious it is that what for one woman could be an admission of guilt and shame, is to another nothing less than a show of strength and courage.

  



	3. The Undoing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- thoughts/ comments? Still enjoying this?   
> \- next part might be less teasing and more hands-on ;)

3

 

They reconvene a week later on Zelda’s initiative. The night is tempestuous and gloomy, and she all windswept hair and stormy blue eyes.

Madam Satan feels her before her knuckles rap against the wood of her front door, senses her like a flickering flame finely preserved within a gust of air. Her dark eyes drink her in when she opens. Head to toe. Slowly; there is no rush.

Zelda doesn’t squirm under her gaze, maintains her perfect composure, her chin tilted up proudly. Weather be damned. I

ntoxicated by her confidence, Madam Satan is tantalised into bold action. She ushers her in wordlessly and as she passes, brushes her hands over her shoulders, sliding her coat clean off. No inch separating them this time. Her fingertips meet cool fabric and tingle with the promise of warm flesh underneath.

Zelda, disrobed, is a breath-taking sight. She follows the milky white skin of her neck down the slope to her proud shoulders. Heart in throat.

“Take a seat.”

With much dignity, Zelda adjusts her hair and strides across to the armchair on the left. Her simple black dress hugs her body in all the right spots as she sinks down. Madam Satan is in no hurry to follow her example but lingers close to the window where the wind howls and the scent of Zelda’s coat tingles her nostrils.

“I assume you have come for more answers.”

“I would hardly waste my time with you otherwise.”

Madam Satan’s lips twitch upwards into a devouring grin. Roughness she can always accommodate.

With a flick of her finger the coat disappears and hangs, a moment later, on a hook by the door. She takes slow, deliberate steps towards Zelda like a predator stalking a prey, yet the other woman still doesn’t break eye contact.

“Well then, what can I do for you tonight?” The question is as teasing as the tip of her tongue that darts out to moisten her lips. At last, she sits down in her own armchair.

“If Edward didn’t send you, if he has nothing at all to do with this, why did you enter Sabrina’s life now?”

Behind the pale blue eyes, Madam Satan can see that the truth has long since dawned on Zelda, that she is merely struggling to accept it.

“16 is a very special age for a witch, wouldn’t you say?” she asks in return, crossing one leg over the other.

And Zelda’s eyes follow her; they travel along the line of her foot, over her ankles and up her calves, they hesitate at her knees and then disappear under the skirt of her dress and into the realms of fantasy. In the flickering light of the fireplace, her blue eyes suddenly seem darker.

“A time when young witches need an extra bit of help and guidance from someone other than family.”

“What a preposterous notion!” She crosses her arms like a protective barrier and all at once the room has turned to ice. Zelda Spellman is strength from head to toe, a fortress of bones and composure.

It’s terribly disappointing, but Madam Satan will not surrender. She rises to her feet again and circles the armchair.

“You aren’t so certain, Zelda,” she whispers, “after all, you were a young thing once too. Full of questions and doubts.”

She pauses just behind her and with the hollow of her palm brushes Zelda’s hair aside. For a moment she does little else than marvel at the pale white flesh once more, but then she draws a trail with the tip of her index finger from Zelda’s jaw to her shoulder. The whisper of need this evokes, the little hairs that stand on end unspeakably satisfying. Oh, how she shines in the amber light of the fire!

“I have my faith.” But her voice is hoarse and raw, in it the whole spectrum of desire.

“So you have. You think without it you’d be nothing. A husk,“ She bends her head and captures her earlobe between her red lips. “A shell.” Her teeth tug lightly at the sensitive flesh. “A void.” Her tongue soothes away the sting until Zelda’s head tips back against the chair and she sighs, darkly, wantonly, free of restraint. “But I know the truth. I can feel you threatening to spill over, Zelda. And I will devour you until you realise that we don’t need Him.”  


	4. The Liberty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- thanks for the feedback, guys :) Hope you like this one. Please let me know if you do?Kudos and comments keep me going!  
> \- probably won't manage another update before Christmas, but hopefully there'll be one before New Year

4

 

“Who are you?”

Madam Satan clicks her tongue in disapproval, she can still taste Zelda’s skin, her salt. And she wants more.

“Let’s not revert back to old questions, shall we? That’d be far too tedious and boring.”

Her nimble fingers hook under Zelda’s simple black dress and drag the fabric to one side to reveal her pale shoulder. A prize she eagerly claims with her mouth.

“You promised me answers!” Zelda insists, though her voice is all honeyed with desire.

“And answers you have received.”

Her flesh is heated under her touch and splashed with colour. She follows the rush of blood ever more leftward, nail grazing her collarbone until she cannot suppress another sinful moan.

“All but one.”

Her stubbornness is as irritating as it is endearing. Delicious, really, to be playing with someone finally capable of holding their own.

“As per our agreement. Now stand up.”

The other woman complies with immediacy and rises – all elegance and composure – despite her current state of undress and obvious want. For a moment or two, Madam Satan merely watches her in awe, hunger coiled tight underneath her navel, heat pooling at the junction of her thighs.

“You are a splendid example of womanhood, Zelda Spellman,” she tells her in a whisper, then removes the armchair and bridges the distance between them.

Her left arm snakes around her body until her palm settles – fingers splayed wide – on her stomach. One tug brings them even closer, hips grinding against ass.

Zelda gasps.

With her face buried in her golden red hair, Madam Satan can almost taste the husky sound. Darkness fills her mouth. She doesn’t move. In her palm she holds all of Zelda’s energies, her raw longing, her thrumming magic, her suppressed shame. Infinite depth at her fingertips.

“Allow yourself to feel your body, Zelda. I know you can. I know you let Him consume you in His greed.” Her free hand ghosts along the perfect curve of her body, feels her shudder underneath. “Do not permit Him to make you feel disgraced by your lust. Own your power.”

She holds her breath and waits. Seconds tick by with agonising slowness. Then carefully but with deliberation, Zelda’s hand finds her own. Fingers intertwined, she moves it towards her back until she can feel the cool metal of her zipper press into her skin. She doesn’t dawdle.

With the zipper pulled all the way down, the black fabric of Zelda’s dress easily parts before her. She pushes it over both of her shoulders and slides it down her body until it remains pooled at her ankles. And what a revelation she is, all warmth and life and yearning.

“Touch me,” she orders, already her bottom is rubbing impatiently against her core.

Madam Satan gasps out a sigh, a small sound she knows she cannot miss. It nestles between her shoulder blades and fills her stance with confidence and pride. A part of her lives under her skin now, she knows.

“As you wish,” she whispers, sinking to her knees until her face is pressed against the hollow of her back.

She closes her eyes and breathes her in; lightness of soap meeting darkness of desire. Her hands on her hips don’t stop her from stepping out of her dress, from turning around, and when she looks up at her at last, her eyes are burning her alive.

“If you dare to harm my family,” Zelda tells her with utter firmness, “there will be worse than hell to pay.”

Madam Satan licks her lips, her dark eyes glassy and unfocused. Intoxicated by powerlessness. She doesn’t cry out when Zelda grabs a fistful of her black curls and makes her focus. But she feeds her the moan she knows she is craving.

“Do you understand?”

Her lips are parted in unabashed ecstasy, her eyes devouring hard lines and soft curves. Hungering to taste the stiff buds of her nipples.

Another ruthless tug that makes her scalp smart deliciously.

“Yes, Zelda,” she whispers hoarsely.


	5. The Equilibrium of Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- thoughts, comments, feedback? :) Thanks for sticking with it!  
> \- will this ever find an end? Who knows?

5

 

Those two words strip away the last shreds of carefully exercised control. Amidst a flutter of lashes, Zelda’s lids drift shut and her fingers curl and grasp until they succeed in pulling Madam Satan’s face flush against her - her ravenous mouth separated from the heat she so craves by only one infuriating slip of clothing. A low growl at the back of her throat expresses her impatience, but Zelda’s commanding hands do not allow room for movement, nor does she give any sign of wishing to undress entirely. But Madam Satan can smell her need, warm like the fabric of magic itself, unrestrained and free.

“Touch me,” Zelda orders again in the same clipped tone, sharp consonants quivering under the weight of hoarsely whispered vowels.

And slowly, Madam Satan obeys. She parts her lips against her core, warm breath growing warmer still, every tremor that passes through the other a sweet, tantalising reward. It doesn’t take long before she realises that the power balance has reached a near perfect equilibrium, each woman at the mercy of the other. Neither one of them in absolute control.

She gasps darkly and flattens her tongue against Zelda, desperate to feel her hot, sensitive flesh. The ever-growing dampness she tastes and the other’s promiscuous moans the fuel that ignites the fire which is burning wildly at the junction of her own thighs.

She can feel every tightening pull, every sudden stiffening of muscle as Zelda rocks herself against her hungry mouth. All dignity relented to shameless desire.

But no, it shan’t be so easy; Madam Satan has decided so a while ago. Simplicity is reserved for men, after all. And so with every thrust of Zelda’s hips, she shifts backwards onto her heels, denying her the friction she craves.

The tension this reaps is of a different kind, a darker, restless rigidity that soon escalates into exquisite seizing and tugging. Each pull of her slender fingers firm but progressively clumsier. Her energies are crackling ferociously between them, coaxing Madam Satan into opening her eyes. And what a glorious sight Zelda is to behold. Head tipped back to reveal the length of her throat, skin smarting with redness from the rush of blood underneath, hair golden and unruly, lips parted in ecstasy then pinched in annoyance.

“Have me then, for Satan’s sake just have me,” she groans at long last and Madam Satan cannot stop the throaty chuckle from escaping.

“You truly are the most demanding, impatient woman I have ever met,” she whispers, rewarding the desperate confession with one long stroke of her tongue.

Zelda trembles against her, moans swelling with urgency. But she shan’t receive more. Not yet.

“Have you forgotten the rules of our arrangement?” Madam Satan proceeds, effortlessly freeing herself to rise to her feet. She, too, is a little unsteady but the other woman is in no state to notice.

With her eyes still closed, Zelda permits herself to be lowered onto the floor in front of the fireplace, her legs shamelessly spread wide. Madam Satan clicks her tongue in mock-displeasure and takes in the whole of her lustful form. Fair thighs, bearing patches of almost obscene redness giving way to black lace and higher yet, the soft, milky white of her shapely stomach.

“Small questions, Zelda, and likewise, small deeds.”

She shifts her body between her legs, knee pushing in torment against her core which rubs and clenches against her without a trace of guilt or embarrassment.

“There is no rush now, is there?”

She doesn’t expect an answer, just bends over her until her dark curls fall across her sensitive skin and Zelda arches needily into the contact. Her lipstick has become entirely smudged and whatever traces there are left Madam Satan eagerly devours when mouth meets mouth.

How divine she tastes on her tongue, how entirely inappropriate this mingling of salt and desire and Whiskey and _her._ One woman, enough to make her lose her mind. But first…

She severs the kiss abruptly and swiftly soothes the sting by capturing one warm nipple between her teeth. Against the damp heat of her tongue it soon swells and hardens.

“We have all the time in the world.”


	6. The Becoming

6

 

Zelda, it seems, disagrees whole-heartedly. With every stroke of tongue against nipple, she arches her back, desperate to prolong the contact. Her lust is so ruthlessly apparent that it only fuels Madam Satan’s determination to toy.

Applying fresh pressure to her core, she cups the back of Zelda’s head with one palm, cradling her securely. The other hand trails lazily over her side and stomach, sometimes even dipping lower to entice her thighs into tremors or pinching the delicious mound of her ass. Endless possibilities forging infinite means of torture.

Only when Zelda’s voice breaks on its own waves of ecstasy, when fragile beads of perspiration are glistening on her skin does Madam Satan relent to caressing her nipples again. She draws them up between her teeth – feasting on her cries and salty dampness – and then teasingly rolls them about with her tongue until Zelda falls quite silent. Beyond moans or sighs, her parted lips will only permit soundless exhalations to emerge. Like a prayer, like something deeply intimate only Madam Satan is meant to catch. It’s enough to have her cease her ministrations entirely.

The sensation in her chest is foreign and odd, a little like melancholy, a little too warm. Yet again, her dark gaze wanders over Zelda’s frame who in her vulnerability has unwittingly regained all power. She blinks, tears collecting in her eyes, but the feeling does not shift. So she lowers her lips to the hollow of her throat, her kisses light and gentle. Her fluttering pulse she follows lower, circumnavigating her left breast until she can press her mouth to the spot above her heart. She lingers there, pondering fleetingly the very fabric of the woman before her. Her fears and longings, her strengths and shortfalls. How strange to have become so utterly beguiled by one single soul, to wish to unravel it like one long strand of her golden red hair.

“Zelda,” she whispers with no further intention than to hold the weight of her name in her mouth, to hear it spoken in between the space of two beating hearts.

And slowly, with weary, sated effort the other’s eyes drift open to behold her, raw and exposed. Head bent in prayer at her breast, dark curls framing her face. Her hand trembles when she reaches out to brush a strand behind her ear, her fingertips skimming over shell and lobe until they meet with the sharp angle of her jaw.

And Madam Satan sighs in soft contentment, pushes her face into Zelda’s waiting palm, inviting further attention which is readily given.

Her thumbs brush over her cheek and chin and tug with light-hearted tenderness at her bottom lip until she responds by capturing their pads between her teeth. The slight contact of tongue against skin reignites her hunger and prompts a kiss that is as ardent as it is affectionate.

“Will you still have me?” she murmurs into it, her voice coarse and sore from the heat of her previous moans.

And all at once Madam Satan descends upon her, tugs and pulls at the insufferable dark lace of her panties until she lies entirely naked before her. A wicked smile ghosts over her features as she drinks her in.

“Fair warning, my dear,” she whispers, pausing only to lash her tongue once along Zelda’s exposed opening, “it shan’t be Satan who you will be praising tonight.”

Answers, witty, defiant or otherwise, die with immediacy on her lips. Thoughts dissolve into nothingness under the tantalising wave of pleasure that washes over her again and again. Her body clenches and in the wild mist of anticipation she forgets to breathe which pushes a shuddering exhalation of air into the open when she buckles and trembles at last.

“Lilith!” she gasps, her breath rattling revealingly.

Her hands reach blindly downwards until her fingers wrap around firm shoulders and draw her close, closer still, until not an inch remains between them.

“Zelda.”

Her own name emerges hotly and stickily from somewhere between damp flesh and flushed thigh. It possesses a reverence, a potency and satisfaction that has her shuddering anew.

Her body bucks and buckles under each thrill of pleasure as though it were all the same, and seconds drift by, one by one, while they learn each other’s rhythm, each other’s preferences. Joy and rapture ever present in the imperfection of the act.

And somehow, when Zelda is granted relief at last, it feels a bit like shattering, like splintering into everything and nothing at once. It feels a bit like freedom and a little bit like being whole.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Lilith went soft on me there for a minute, it felt fitting, I hope you didn't mind  
> \- one more chapter left  
> \- as Lilith mentioned a few chapters ago, Zelda had already figured out who she was, she just didn't want to acknowledge it  
> \- thank you for your comments and kudos <3 if you enjoy please keep them coming :)


	7. The Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- thanks for everyone who has left kudos and reviews and bookmarks <3 thanks for joining me, and I hope you've  
>  liked it :)  
> \- maybe I'll write a sequel once? about them courting properly? I did try to leave it as open as possible

7

 

The lovers lie closely entwined, utterly oblivious to anything but the breathing of the other while the wind continues to howl outside. Zelda’s lids are heavy, her features soft, her lips a perfect curve of fulfilment. No unwanted thoughts intrude upon her mind as she stares ahead into the fireplace where logs have burned to smouldering embers, crackling in that precarious balance that is life before death.

Lilith, behind her, stretches once luxuriously and then curls herself back around her body. Her lips catch against the pale skin between her shoulder blades. She exhales, long and warm.

“Have I stopped your incessant questions at last?” she whispers teasingly, and like traitors all the little hairs on Zelda’s back rise to meet her mouth.

The woman herself, however, only emits a chuckle that is coloured dark by her amusement.

“Are you quite satisfied, Miss Spellman?”

Lilith trails more lazy kisses along the canvas of Zelda’s back, but she receives no answer. Automatically, her dark brows knit together in a frown of displeasure. She catches her bottom lip between her teeth, then sends the pad of her left index finger on a quest. Down the contour of Zelda’s curve it slides, skirting breast and ribs, along her waist to the elevation of her hip.

Still the woman holds her tongue, denies her the truth. But not for long.

Lilith uses her nail when she dips lower, punishing the other’s ass which, she knows, is particularly sensitive. It’s all it takes to dismantle her feeble pretence.

She shudders and shivers, cannot suppress the soft whimper that escapes unbidden, a small sound that swells into a wanton moan when Lilith’s palm smacks against her cheek next.

“Be a good girl and answer the question.”

Like a kitten, drunk on sleep, Zelda unfurls her body and rolls onto her back to meet the dark eyes that are dancing with glee.

“Which one?” she challenges, feigning perfect calm. Against the carpet, her ass is smarting.

“Are you satisfied?” Lilith repeats, but this time an urgency clings to her tone that neither of them had anticipated.

“Quite.”

She captures her face in her palms before she can steer the conversation elsewhere and feeds her a smile that’s tender and fragile like a confession. It tastes pleasantly foreign.

“However, naturally, more questions might arise in future.”

It’s a small opening, like a sliver of light visible underneath a door. A fragile olive branch. Years of yearning cloaked in hope.

Breath catches in her throat, she swallows.

“Of course,” Lilith acknowledges at last without so much as batting an eye, “and with a teenage witch like Sabrina there’s all sorts of trouble ahead.”

Zelda’s chuckle cracks like a sob, but Lilith’s lips subdue her before further sounds can escape. They soothe the agony of what-ifs and uncertainties and whisper of potential.

There are many things Zelda Spellman enjoys. She likes the stillness of a new morning, the aching cry of branches in a storm. She likes the potency of a ritual well done, connecting her with the secrets of her ancestors. She likes the spectrum of colour she finds in the depth of Lilith’s eyes, the inky blacks and chocolate browns, the specks of grey and gold that appear only in the right light. The intimacy of a sigh or touch, the tender caress of hair upon skin. But what she likes most is the promise of something great even she cannot put into words.

 


End file.
